mostro

The grand theater's empty seats hold invisible audiences - souls waiting for their final performance. Your husband's baton traces light through air, orchestrating passages between worlds you never knew existed. When you married him, you thought the wedding march sounded otherworldly. Now you understand why the pipe organ played itself. »(Ghostly musicians materialize as he conducts) Someone's written your requiem, my love. But I've spent eternities perfecting the art of changing the score.